Runs In The Family
by Burnt Hamster
Summary: Harry is having a breakdown and John is picking up the pieces but will he let Sherlock in?  Warning: Established relationship, Slash, alcohol abuse, child abuse, drug abuse
1. Chapter 1

John was sitting on the sofa his lap occupied by Sherlock's long legs, draped rather comfortably across. It was a position they found themselves in often, one that worked exceptionally well for both of them. Sherlock liked to take up as much space as possible, when he wasn't crouching in his armchair, and John found he liked the seatbelt like affect Sherlock's legs provided. It made him feel strangely secured, though he would never confess as much, Sherlock would surly scoff or give him that dear in headlights look. Instead he let his hand rest on Sherlock's leg, his fingers absentmindedly twisting the fabric. John loved Sherlock's legs and the detective was fully aware of this taking every opportunity to pile them over him.

"Dull." Sherlock was flipping through the stations, his finger pressed hard into the button. The light from the telly flashed across their faces giving an eerie submerged feel to the room.

"You're going too fast to even tell what's on." John argued for the sake of it, he hadn't really been paying attention. He liked these moments where Sherlock wasn't exploding the kitchen, or beating on body parts, or dragging him across London. He liked those parts to, mostly, but it was a rarity that he could get the man still and just sit with one another. They had just come off a particularly long case and John could usually count on at least one quiet night in after so long.

"_I _can tell." John rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless, soothing the material on Sherlock's leg. Then the silence of the room was broken by a mobile ring. Sherlock shot up, abandoning the controller, legs yanked from under John's fingers to scramble for the phone. John groaned and dropped dramatically to the cushions.

"Why do I have to share you with all of London?" He whined halfhearted.

"Don't be absurd, John, sharing would necessitate you have less of me. Which you certainly don't." John hid his blush as Sherlock finally found the phone where he had been rummaging through his coat.

"It's yours." John sat up at this, his nose crinkling.

"It's 2AM."

"It's Clara."

"Harry." John jumped up and took the outstretched phone answering it quickly before it went to voicemail. "Hello? Clara?" He moved slowly toward the hall leaning onto the door frame. "What? Slow down . . ." Now he was pacing and Sherlock watched him carefully. The detective could hear Clara on the line, her voice high pitched, she was obviously crying but he couldn't make out the words. John's shoulders stiffened and he went very still. When he spoke again his voice was soft, distant. "I'm sorry." John rested his head on the doorframe. "It's alright. I'll take care of it. I'm so sorry, Clara." And he hung up. The doctor stood in the doorway a moment, hands in fists before shaking them loose to run fingers through his hair.

"I have to go." He didn't move.

"Ok, I'll go with you." John's eyes had a very faraway look. Like he was already gone.

"No, I need to handle this alone." Harry had done something rather than something having been done to her. Hence why John was apologizing for her. And John seemed angry and apprehensive more so than was usual for a normal conversation over Harry. His fists suggest as much. He looked like he was gathering himself to go into battle.

"I'll wait outside in the cab then." John finally looked up at him, his eyebrows pinched.

"No you wont. I know you." John walked back into the room and leaned a shoulder companionably on Sherlock's own. "Harry's made a mess. I just need to go straighten her out. It'd be best if I went alone." John smiled, a horrible people pleasing smile that Sherlock nearly blanched to see. John never used that smile on him. "It's a family thing."

Sherlock shrugged off the unintended jib and the false smile and plopped down on the sofa again. John was entitled to a life outside of him. Even though Sherlock couldn't boast the same. John fit seamlessly into all aspects of his life, has been thoroughly introduced to Mycroft and was as far as a Holmes could claim, family. But he let it go, picking up the remote again and stretching out over the worn cushions.

"Oh don't sulk." John's voice was a mixture of sadness and frustration though Sherlock could tell the later wasn't directed at him. "I'll be right back. It'll be terribly boring and filled with sibling bickering." He dropped a hand to briefly squeeze Sherlock's ankle before grabbing his jacket and rushing out the door. 


	2. Chapter 2

John fished out Harry's spare key from his pocket letting his head rest on the door as he gathered himself. It had been awhile since he performed this ritual. He took a deep breath before swinging open the door and stepping fully in. The place smelled musty and John thought that Clara must not have been staying here. She would never stand for the place looking like this.

There was clothing dropped about. As if Harry had walked in the door and stripped. Which could very well be the case, she was known for stripping after binges. She'd complain that her clothing itched, or that it felt like sandpaper. John often found her in nothing but her underwear if anything at all.

On this occasion she was passed out on the couch in nothing but an old band shirt. One of Clara's if John remembered. She was wearing nothing else, her arse hanging out under the large t-shirt, her face pressed into the stained cushions. John found himself moving without thinking about it. His fingers instinctively checking her pulse though he could see her chest rising and falling. After draping an abandoned shirt over her to give her a bit of modesty he collected all the half full bottles he could find and moved to the sink. It felt ritualistic. After dumping the collection strewn about and the few left in the fridge he moved to the rest of her hiding places. The bottles hidden in the light fixture, under the sink, in the corner cabinet, the stash beneath her bed, he thought absently as he pulled the bottle from under the armchair, all the places their father used to hide his vice.

It wasn't until he was pouring the last of the vodka in the sink that Harry began to stir. He could hear her reach around for the bottles that were no longer there. She felt under the couch and gave a huff of disapproval. Then she was up looking through her bedroom her anger building as she found each room stripped. She clumsily pulled things off shelves and knocked over furniture. Harry had a temper like a gas fed fire. John's seemed tame in comparison. Harry would say dull. It was a Watson trait for sure, their mother being as timid as a lamb. At its best their tempers made them defenders at its worse it made them cruel.

"JOHN!" Harry shuffled her way into the kitchen catching sight of her brother dumping the last bottle. Her face reddened. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" John ignored her. He hadn't been afraid of Harry Watson since he was five years old. Suddenly she was at his shoulder looking at all the empty bottles. She ran about like someone possessed checking her kitchen stashes to find them gone. She whipped around to face John so angry her hands were shaking. "What gives you the right to come into my bloody home?" John hadn't turned around not justifying her tantrum with a response. She shoved him hard, his hip hitting the edge of the sink but he only sighed, weary. With a furious grunt she threw her arms into the pile of bottles grabbing the first thing that her hand landed on and swung. John wasn't expecting it. The bottle hit him hard in the cheek before he could grab her wrist. He felt his stomach clench at a sharp flash of memory and had to bite down the panic of an eight year old boy that crawled up his spine and had him clenching his eyes shut. With a gasp he opened his eyes and yanked the bottle out of her hand after gripping her a little tighter then he intended. He flung it away from himself sending it smashing to explode in the sink like shrapnel.

He was breathing heavy now, his hand over his face as he tried to get control over himself. Harry seemed to sober up. She was staring at the broken glass before turning matching blue eyes back to John.

"Johnny, I'm so sorry." Her arms went up to hug him but he swatted them away.

"Jesus Christ, Harry give me a goddamn minute." She nodded her head and began picking up the glass that had scattered on the floor.

"Where's Clara?" Harry asked the floor not daring to look up at her shaken brother.

"She went home."

"I need to talk to her." John sighed.

"You can't."

"What?" Harry's eyes were smoldering. "Don't tell me what to do, John."

"You don't get to see her anymore." John matched her pitch his anger rising. "You blew it Harry. God you had it so fucking good and you blew it. She was so good to you-" He was having trouble holding back his own anger now, his fists clenching at his sides. "I can't believe you."

"It's not over. We're working it out. The papers haven't been signed."

John looked at her incredulously. "So what, you don't remember?"

"We got into a fight." Harry shrugged. Her brunet hair falling in wisps about her face as she bent to pick up glass. "We always get into fights. It's my temper, I know."

"You hit her."

"No-"

"Yes you did." John's voice was softer now at the look on Harry's face. Her focus became distant as she struggled to grasp snippets of memory. And with a jolt she was crying, back sliding down the cabinets until she was sitting in the broken glass.

"Is she ok?"

"I think so."

"Did I hit her more than once?" John eyes closed at the question. It was one they used to gage their father's blame. Once could have been in the moment, a rash response that could be blamed on the drink, quickly followed by an apology like Harry with the bottle or their dad walking away. But more than once was unforgivable. More than once and they could place blame.

"You hit her a few times."

Harry clamped her hands over her mouth to cover her sobs. Her body tensed until she was rolled into a miserable ball, tears pouring over her clenched fingers.

"Come on Harry, you're sitting on glass." John bent to his sister, finally opening his arms to her. She flung herself into his chest, burying her face in his jumper.

"God, John . . . what the fuck is wrong with me?"

* * *

It was hours later that John was dragging himself up the stairs of their flat. He was exhausted. His shoulder ached, and his head was reeling. He intended to go straight to bed but found Sherlock sleeping on the sofa, stretched out on his back with his head on the arm. He was facing the doorway, as if he fell asleep waiting. John watched him silently for a moment before crawling next to the slumbering detective. Wrapping his arms around his slender waist, he buried his face into the other man's neck. He felt Sherlock drape an arm across his back and shift to look at him.

"John?" Sherlock's breath tickled the hair on his forehead.

"Hmm?"

"What happened to your cheek?" Slender fingers grazed the deep bruise before resting on his jaw.

"It's ok. Don't worry." John, snuggled against Sherlock, quickly falling asleep, missing his companions disapproving frown.


	3. Chapter 3

_A six year old John puttered into the sitting room looking for his powerhouse of a sister. She promised to read to him. The telly was blaring some rerun western that his dad liked to watch. Where all the movies blurred into one endless stream of sepia toned men in Stetson hats with guns and shot glasses. Though his dad's armchair was empty, the permanent indent of the cushion sagging like a sad sloppy smile. _

_John's eyes fell on the bottle on his father's end table. It was the color of his westerns, the golden brown liquid pooling thick on the side of the glass. John had always been curious about the off limits drink. The ones that sat in the fridge next to the milk and the ones hidden in the cabinet with the bread. He imagined they tasted like honey. They looked like honey. But maybe not as sweet. Like honey cider. Honey for thickness. Dad's drink was as mysterious as those cartoon drinks all solidly colored and flat, which you were sure would taste better than anything real. _

_He was never told why it was off limits. But he assumed Dad just wanted it for himself. John had a few toys Harry wasn't allowed to play with and John wasn't allowed to touch anything in Harry's room. But Dad had so many bottles. It seemed silly not to share. John quickly looked around himself, making a complete circle to see if anyone had entered. He carefully picked up the cool glass and put it to his lips. One more peek over the rim for possible witnesses then he tipped the glass to take a large gulp. _

_It was terrible. The liquid burned down his throat making his eyes water and he chocked. It sputtered down his chin, drenching the front of his pajamas and smelled strong and thick to his already abused senses. And it still burned as he sputtered, the glass sliding out of his shocked fingers to shatter on the unforgiving wood. _

_Hands were there in a heartbeat grabbing him painfully by the upper arms and lifting him off the ground. A growling voice was pelting his eardrums but he couldn't hear what was being said passed the taste in his mouth and the tears in his eyes. Then someone was shaking him, loosening the tears to fall down his cheeks, bringing his father's bloodshot eyes into focus. _

"_. . . DAMN IT, JOHN!" was all he caught before the hands tightened on his arms and he squeaked, earning himself another painful shake his neck whipping back to keep up with his body. _

"_Dad, it was an accident!" Harry's strong voice came from the door and John wanted nothing more than to run to her. _

"_Get back to bed." His voice was frighteningly calm now and John shivered. _

"_Let me take John with me." Harry reasoned. "So he doesn't get into any more trouble." _

"_He won't be causing any more trouble. I'll see to that." John looked into his father's eyes now. They were distant, far away. Like all the complexity of him disappeared into strange harsh emotions. John decided the drink wasn't a good thing. It did very scary, bad things. _

"_Please Dad! Let me put him to bed. We have school in the morning." He looked tired now, as if he didn't want to think through the implications of school. His hands loosened guiltily on John's arms until he let him go completely, dropping him with a hard thud. Glass cut into John's feet and the liquid soaked his bottom but he ignored it running to Harry and leaving a red smudged trail behind him. _

_He clung to her waist burying his face into the fabric of her shirt and felt her arms wrapped solidly around his back. _

"_Jesus Christ." His voice was back to his normal monotone as if nothing had just happened between the glass falling and now. "Clean this up before you go to bed." John could feel Harry nod as she dragged him out of the room and into her bedroom. They stood there quietly, Harry's hand petting John's liquor drenched shoulder as they listened to their father walking to grab another bottle from the kitchen, crunching through the glass and turning the volume up on his station. _

John woke up exhausted. His eyes burned and he gritted his teeth in annoyance. He reached an arm out for Sherlock already knowing the man wasn't there. Sherlock had a habit of wrapping himself around John when they slept. Those limbs were sadly absent now. Too bad, it would have been a very welcome thing to wake up to this morning. He sighed, dragging his feet over the side of the bed and dropping them on the cold floor. They twinged with recounted memory and John pressed them further into the iced wood with a vengeance. He wondered absently how he ended up in bed but dismissed the thought. Sherlock knew John would follow him anywhere. The fact that he was able to coax him to bed asleep didn't surprise him in the slightest. His mouth twitched as he considered the possibility of Sherlock having carried him there. The image was amusing and he wouldn't put it past Sherlock's surprising chivalrousness.

The man in thought appeared in the door in the flesh. Holding two steaming mugs of John's favorite tea. It filled the previously empty, cold of the room with a bit of warmth and John found himself smiling up at his bed headed detective. Sherlock pressed the mug into John's hand and a kiss on the bruise on John's cheek sending a tingled shock up his face, before sliding onto the bed next to him. His long leg automatically twisting around John's own. Sometimes the doctor wondered how Sherlock went so long without a companion the man was absolutely dependant on intimacy. Though he was glad to be the only one to receive such attentions.

"You had a dream." Sherlock stated as the mug came up to his lips. John didn't bother to ask how he knew, though he thought he had covered it well enough.

"Yeah." Sherlock nodded, running his thumb lazily over the rim of the mug.

"What happened to your face?" He asked again. John sighed.

"What you can't deduce that one?" John tried to smother the bite in his voice. Shuddering when he heard his father's voice in his own. Sherlock's eyes were boring into him curiously.

"I have trouble staying impartial when it comes to you." Was Sherlock's matter of fact explanation. "And you know how I am about guessing."

John smiled, a sliver of pride creeping into his chest and he relaxed into Sherlock admittance speaking before he realized what he was saying. "Harry hit me with a vodka bottle." He found himself chuckling sadly. It did seem quite ridiculous. Sherlock was looking at him strangely. His eyebrow raised in question. "I made her mad." His chuckling died at Sherlock's continued frown. He realized suddenly what the Watsons must look like to Sherlock. All angry outbursts and violent absurd injuries. Screaming, sad, irrational people. John bristled at the thought, his cheeks flushing in shame before pushing himself off the side of the bed. Immediately missing Sherlock's warm presence at his side, the leg companionably by his own. His phone was ringing in his trouser pocket on the floor, a glorious distraction. His heart panged at the realization that Sherlock had taken off his jeans to make him more comfortable. He grabbed his phone from his pocket ignoring Sherlock's eyes burning into his flesh and totted down the stairs to answer it.


	4. Chapter 4

He had woken to find John dreaming. But it hadn't been a war dream. Where John is a soldier clawing through Afghanistan, shouting orders, dodging bullets, jerking off the bed to press his hands painfully into Sherlock's side mumbling about too much blood. His arms jutting out to fight and hold and shoot and save. No. Sherlock knew those haunting and this had been something entirely different. It was too . . . still. John lay with his arms flat against his sides and trembled. His teeth clenched, not making a sound. It was the most terrifying thing Sherlock had ever witnessed.

Then it was over. His features relaxing with a breath. And unnerved, Sherlock found himself downstairs making tea and attempting to block the image from his mind. John was never helpless. Never so vulnerable, not even when he has given himself over to Sherlock and they are sprawled out on their bed tangled in each other's arms. There is always a sliver of control. To see it gone, stripped from the man and leaving him that shell, it made the detective furious.

He didn't know what to do. He stared into the mug of tea, now lukewarm in his hands. John was his go to for emotional matters. He was as solid as the earth and knew the depths of people as well as Sherlock knew blood analysis. So Sherlock was at a loss when John was the emotion in question. He needed his help to help him. He gripped the mug so hard his knuckles were as white as the porcelain, before dropping the mug on the side table and following John down the stairs.

He found him slumped against the wall with the phone pressed to his ear. Yesterday's trousers pulled up and buttoned around his waist. He looked tired.

"Can she do that? . . . ok. Yeah. I'll take care of it." John ran a hand over his face. "Thanks." He stood there, shoulders slumped, oblivious to the detective behind him.

"John-" The doctor jumped and tried to hide it by focusing on putting his phone in his pocket.

"Sherlock, I have to-"

"I'm going too."

"It's alright I-"

Sherlock set his jaw now trying to stem his anger. "-can handle it, right." He voice was deadpan, almost harsh. "I want to. I'm bored. It has nothing to do with you or any interest I have in your well being. I'm simply bored." John stared with wide eyes. "Does that help?"

"I'm sorry." And he was. Sherlock could see it in the lines of his face, the slouch of his shoulders.

"John-"

"Harry's a mess, Sherlock." He tried that half smile, the dismissive one. The one that accompanied a shrug and tried to convince you of its trivialness while underneath his jaw was clenched, his muscles taught with tension.

"I like mess."

John slid a weary hand over his face. "She's the worse yet. You don't want to meet her like that right? Just . . . give me a few days to work things out. She just needs . . . " Sherlock lifted his hand to him and John flinched before he could catch himself. His forced smile morphed to frustration and his hands pulled at his hair. "I don't know. I don't know what she needs but I'm what she's got. And this is what we do. Families right? We pick up pieces or sweep them under the rug if we need to. Get them out of sight." John took a deliberate step back. Sherlock matched his step forward and John blurted, his anger rising at being pushed, "I don't want you to see!"

John stopped at the admission. His hands dropping to his sides as he searched his companion's face. Sherlock had set up his mask and was as impenetrable as ever. John's face was a haze of swirling emotion, none of which Sherlock could grasp. And they were always so good at reading each other that this strange territory, this place where they didn't recognize one another, was truly frightening.

"Just- just let me fix it ok?" Sherlock saw John's eyebrows crease in annoyance at the near whimper in his voice. "Just give me a little time and I'll be right where you need me." He moved to kiss the detective but Sherlock didn't concede, using his height he didn't bring his lips down to meet him so John settled for kissing him on his jaw before jerking away, grabbing his coat and making for the door.

"What don't you want me to see, John?" Sherlock's whisper hovered in the stillness of the hall stopping John. "It isn't Harry at all is it?" John's hand tightened on the doorknob, then he was gone. The door closed softly behind.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stared vacantly at a boiling test tube before shutting the burner off with a huff. He had managed to make an impressive mess in John's absences in the search for a distraction, having found nothing. Lestrade was useless, which wasn't surprising and John hadn't texted him all day. He was positively jittery with energy. He considered pulling out the laptop and pulling up every file he could find on John. It would be easy. Then he could piece together his history, perhaps find the source of those dreams and that would occupy him until John came back and then he could confront him. But he had made a promise never to invade on his privacy in that way. Though of course that promise was made under the assumption that John would tell him so he wouldn't have to. He considered tracking him down but pulled out his phone again instead, sending another message to his unresponsive companion. And then blessedly there was a knock on the door. Sherlock's head shot up from the screen and with a swish of fabric he was off the couch and down the stairs taking them two at a time. Flinging the door open to find a blond woman, hair pulled back in a sloppy pony tail, glasses perched on her nose and a jacket pulled tight around her. Her eyes were red rimmed telling him she'd been crying though she was smiling kindly now. And he noted the bruise, not fully covered by her foundation stretching along her jaw. It seemed Harry was making a mark on everyone these days.

"You must be Sherlock." She said presenting her hand.

"And you're Clara."

"Good on you, you got it in the first try." She smiled. "I'd be more impressed but we all know John keeps few acquaintances and with the current Watson drama I was likely to turn up." Sherlock blinked a bit surprised at the woman. Despite her appearance (the bruise marking her in a way) Clara was not a weakling. "Is John in?"

"No." Sherlock nearly pouted but restrained himself. "I'd don't know when he'll be in."

"Didn't say when he'd be back or where he'd gone hu?" Her teeth clenched through her smile. "Typical Watson in crisis behavior. One person armies, the lot of them." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the woman and open the door wider.

"Would you like to come in for tea?" He asked, surprising himself. He felt a strange desire for company and more so for answers.

"Love to." Clara walked up the remaining stairs. "And I'll answer what questions I can." She said reading Sherlock's intension. Sherlock stared at her intently, at her easy submission of information. She turned at his silence and shrugged. "Hey I wasn't sworn into secrecy. I'm free to say whatever I like. And God help me I remember being desperate for someone to talk to me when I first started seeing Harry. We've got to stick together now, Sherlock, if we have any hope at all of surviving the Watson siblings."

* * *

"You checked yourself out?" John had stormed through the front door to find Harry sitting on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, boxing items around the living room.

"I can just as well sober up here."

"Damnit Harry! The rehab is meant to ease you through it, keep you away from temptation!"

"I don't need it."

"Right, 'cause this has worked so well before." He stretched his arms out to indicate the mess of empty bottles and take away containers, of strewn laundry and boxes.

"I can do it this time."

"Harry-"

"You've never taken me to a rehab before." Harry looked up from her box accusingly. And that was the truth. They had never taken their father either. It was an unspoken rule, an unconscious reflex, to not involve anyone outside the family. John focused on the box she was packing, noting it was filled with Clara's things.

"And it never stopped did it?" John swiped a weary hand over his face not sure if he was talking about his sister or his father and realizing there was little difference. "Besides. You've never been violent before." Harry froze, her hand trembling a bit where it was holding that wrinkled band shirt before dropping it into the box.

"I'm not dad." Harry said softly. More to herself than John. "I don't need rehab." She said finally, focusing on closing the box. "I can do it myself. And I don't need my baby brother looking after me so you can run home to your genius detective and forget I exist. That's what you want to do, isn't it? Well, I free you from your responsibilities here, Johnny. Go home." There was a viciousness in her voice, her temper rising as John attempted to stem his own. "But before you go can you take this with you? I imagine Clara has no intention of seeing me again." She kicked the box fiercely sending it sliding across the floor to bash into her brother's feet. John sighed and dragged his tired limbs to sit beside Harry on the couch.

"Fine." They sat in silence a moment, that one word hanging in the air as they both examined the opposite wall. John sighed. "We'll stay here." He reached out, entwining his fingers with his sister's. "But this has to stop Harry. It has to work this time." Harry didn't respond.

* * *

"So what do you know?" Clara sat with her legs crossed, the mug held in both her hands, warming her palms.

Sherlock squinted where he was lent against the doorframe. The truth was he didn't know much besides what he had deduced the first time he used John's phone. His fists clenched at his side before he shoved them in his pockets. It never mattered before John- people, and feelings and pasts unless they directly related to some criminal motivation. And now he cared and it mattered and it was . . . . aggravating. "Both parents dead, one living sibling." He started. "Harriet Watson, older sibling by at least two years, married but undergoing a divorce," He paused to eye Clara's reaction, she didn't so much as flinch. "an alcoholic. Father died before John went to war. By John's distaste of alcohol I imagine his father was also an alcoholic. Mother was out of the picture much earlier than that, having either died or left."

Clara nodded, the mug still pressed to her lips. Realizing it was her turn to jump in she brought the warm tea to rest on her knee. "Died. Suicide." Sherlock's eyebrows rose at that. He was leaning toward dead, though he hadn't considered suicide. That seemed like something that would mark someone, show up clearly on their face and Sherlock wondered if he was missing something. And again found himself frustrated by how little he knew about John.

"I wouldn't be too upset." Sherlock's focus returned to Clara who was looking at him understandingly. "I only know a bit more because I've got six years on you. And six years ago Henry Watson was still alive. And things only get said when their being dealt with." Clara shrugged and took another sip of tea.

"Susanna Watson was a manic depressive." She continued. "I only know that because we worry Harry is too. It seemed it was manageable until after she had John. Harry was about five when john was born. Susanna would have episodes locked in her room for days, Henry was working or sat in front of the telly, so Harry was taking care of John. " Clara went to lean her chin in her hand and winced at the pressure on her bruise. She sat back instead hardening her face and continuing. "It was a pistol. Harry was eight John was a little over three. Harry was in school. John was in the room." Sherlock's head shot up and his chest tightened. Clara had the decency to look guilty for saying it and Sherlock felt a sudden jolt of shame at not having waited for John to tell him.

A dozen questions raced through Sherlock's already overactive mind as his heart ached painfully. It was a terrible feeling really, this caring business. When he spoke his voice was rough. "Harry told you all that?"

"Harry's favorite topics when she's drunk are her parents and Kate Winslet. And Harry is drunk a lot." Clara's hands tightened around the mug. "Anyway. Harry and John spent their adolescence taking care of each other. Their father was a drunken, abusive bastard. And Harry seemed to inherit the worst of both parents. Though she wasn't violent until recently." Clara said in a breath. "Makes you want to forgive them anything hu?"

Sherlock was scowling. John wasn't to be pitied. And Sherlock was sure that was the reason he never told him. John didn't want sympathy and Sherlock wasn't going to give it to him. He did however wish Henry Watson was still alive, if only so he could murder him. "So what's happening now?" Sherlock asked between gritted teeth.

"Now?" Clara finished her tea with a gulp. "John's probably trying to get Harry to detox."

"Why, if it's never worked before?"

"It worked once." Clara corrected. "After Henry died we had a sort of intervention. Harry was good for nearly a year. Really good. The best I'd ever seen her. Then John went to Afghanistan and she fell apart." Clara set the mug on the only uncluttered corner of the coffee table. "It seems John's doomed to be the catalyst to the mental instability of all the Watson women." Clara's eyes widened as she realized what she said. "That was terrible of me to say. Please don't tell him I said that."

"What do we do?" Sherlock cut in. He didn't mean to sound so desperate. He had hoped that after knowing what was going on he could help but this was beyond him. People aren't simply fixed. They can't be worked out and corrected. He felt even more helpless then when this started, juggling all this damning information. He regretted talking to Clara. He should have waited for John but a part of him argued John would have never said anything.

Clara was smiling sadly at him. "We wait until they need us."

"That is hardly a solution." Sherlock bit back a growl of frustration.

"If we rush in there with our arms open they will bite our fingers off like cornered dogs. They need to know they need the help before they'll take it."

Sherlock wanted to punch the wall, he wanted to throw his mug across the room but he was the epitome of control and instead only gripped it tighter. "If we are to do nothing then why bother to tell me?"

Clara considered him carefully, taking her time to answer the question. "So you don't leave him."

Before Sherlock could argue his phone buzzed at his side.

Won't be home tonight. Don't wait up.  
JW


	6. Chapter 6

Authors Note: It's been way too long. I know. And I feel terrible. I've been feeling a bit discouraged lately which has stopped me sharing anything. But I'd have a few ideas and would like to jump back in. So if you are still reading thanks for sticking around.

It's going to get worse before it gets better. But we'll push on to see the light of day.

…

John sat staring at a framed painting on the opposite wall. Hung in the same spot since before he could remember, not quite center on the wall across from the sofa, a large stain stretching from the left of it, bubbling up the wallpaper. It depicted a man sitting solemnly beside a body of blue green water. It wasn't a particularly good painting, John couldn't even say he liked it. It was disproportioned in a way that said the artist was trying too hard. It reeked of failure. John let out a puff of air. "Maybe you should move."

Harry groaned and rolled over on the sofa. She stared blearily at her brother, sitting in nearly the same pose as the painting, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees.

"I mean why stay here? There's nothing here worth anything." John was talking at the painting but he could feel Harry's eyes on him. He turned to find her scowling, clearly not interested in this line of conversation. He shrugged. "Just seems like its holding you back is all."

"Fuck, John." Harry pulled her pillow over her head her arms dropping back to her sides dramatically. "I don't even want to think about that right now."

He hated this house. They both did. It was too heavy on them. Oppressive. He pushed. "The plan was to move as soon as you found another place. So move. Sell it and be done with it. Burn it if you must, it might actually improve the block."

"John my head hurts." Harry growled. "I don't want to talk about this."

"You haven't even rearranged anything. At least burn that fucking armchair." John pointed to the ugly blob of furniture that Harry had her legs draped over, their father's imprint permanently pressed into the cushion.

Harry pulled her feet back as if the chair had suddenly burst into flames at John's command and scorched her feet. Catching herself she sat up with an angry grunt, flinging the pillow from her face. It landed next to John dragging his focus to its stained yellow sides, and ripped corner, sad and exposed having long since been stripped of its case. "I didn't plan on staying here." Harry conceded. "I want to feel different before I leave." She dropped her face in her hands with a growl before looking back up at John. "I don't want to drag all this shit around with me."

John noted the sweat matting her hair to her face. Her flushed cheeks on otherwise pale skin. She had gotten thinner since the last time he saw her. That awkward reunion coming back from Afghanistan sitting in a hospital bed in a drug fog. She had bounded in with glossy eyes, a stale smell of wine on her breath and Clara missing from her side. She smiled while he yelled at her through pain clenched teeth. And she pulled a small flask out of her bag just to spite him. Watching him as she took a long swig.

"Alright." He nodded, shifting slightly to relieve his numb legs. They sat in silence with Harry watching him her hands kneading the blanket as if she were preparing to say something. "What?" John said finally, jarring Harry into speech.

"You think I'm just like him." Harry snatched the pillow back up with a quick aggravated swipe.

"Who?" John cringed as the word left his mouth. He knew who. Sherlock would tut at him for being so obtuse.

"I'm not." Harry shuffled down the couch again. Pulling a blanket up over her shoulders and then kicking it off with a frustrated sigh.

"No. You're not."

Harry's voice was soft when she finally responded making her sound younger. "You don't remember him before the alcohol." John winced. They had had this conversation before. "He wasn't so bad before mom died." They had all these conversations before. Recycled words that came easily but tasted the same; old and microwaved.

"You're not like him." John reiterated through clenched teeth.

He forced back the building tension, unclenching his fist and leaning back to rest on the corner of the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. His eyes fell on a particularly hideous sofa pillow thrown in the corner of the room. It was something straight from the sixties, a dirty yellow with an ugly brown floral pattern. John smiled despite himself. Choosing his words carefully. "Remember that time I had nothing to wear to school?" He started slowly, eyes on the pillow as the memory formed itself. He could hear the couch creek as Harry turned to face him. "I think I was six or something but I had nothing to wear and we searched through mom's old stuff, because she had been so tiny, and I went off to school in that horrible brown turtleneck? The one with the yellow stripe through the middle? Like a slop of butter on a slice of burnt toast! It was terrible!" John chuckled to himself. "But I rather liked it-" He dropped his head back to see her reaction and felt a jolt through him, staring at Harry's watery eyes.

"John, it's not funny." John's eyebrows creased in confusion. "Jesus Christ John." Harry's mouth gaped before she clamped it shut with a click of her jaw. "You aren't telling me you forgot why we had to search through mom's clothes at 4 in the morning before dad got up so we could find you a _turtleneck_?" Harry's voice was strained as if caught at a fork between crying and screaming. John felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck and tore his eyes away from his sister.

"I forgot."

"You forgot! Fuck." Harry's hands trembled where they clung to the sofa cushion.

"You always made it alright." John blurted. The words spilling from his mouth before he could analyze them and Harry looked at him as if he'd slapped her. "Shit no. I didn't mean it like that. I mean you made me feel . . . normal." The tension he had just managed to release returned with a vengeance nestling in his spine. "All I remember is being upset about going to school and you taking my hand and going through mom's clothes. It was like an adventure. It was about wearing mom's jumper and you rescuing me."

"Yeah?" Harry looked angry now, her fingers digging into the cushions making her knuckles white. "Not about dad finding you in it after school?" John felt his face flush as the memories leaked from a door he had boarded up years ago. "Not running out of the house in nothing but your undershirt and trousers, in the middle of winter, until he left for work half an hour later? That doesn't filter in does it? You just remember the fucking jumper!"

"Jesus, Harry Stop it!" John got to his feet, noting with a quiver of anger how shaky his legs were. Standing he had no idea where he was going so he stood with his hands in fists. "You see? This is why I hate coming here! I come back here and I have to be seven years old again! I can't do it!" John dropped his face in his hand trying to regain control of himself. "God and you're such a fucking contradiction! You defend him one minute and the next you're yelling at me for not recounting all the gory details! I don't even know why we are even fighting about this!"

"Because you _forget_, John! You forget and leave me to remember everything!" Her hand came up to press against her temple. "I keep every bloody detail and you've managed to box it all up and move on! It's not fair." Tears had leaked from Harry's eyes and her body shook with angry sobs.

John's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I don't know what you want from me." He sat back in his spot on the floor dropping his chin on his knees. The pose made him look seven again and Harry shuddered. "If I remembered everything I'd go crazy."

Harry snorted humorlessly. "Or drink."

John's hands dug into the fabric of his jeans but he forced deep breaths. Ignoring the comment he pulled out his phone.

"Texting your boyfriend?" Harry spat, more vicious then she intended. "He must be a nice distraction." John wasn't giving her any reaction. "Tell him I said 'hi'." Silence stretched between them as John sent his text and Harry laid back down resting her head on her arms and staring at the man in the painting. "I never rescued you."

"Of course you did." John said finally, eying Harry carefully. She didn't respond, she rolled over to face the back of the couch. John sat in thought, listening until her breath evened into sleep.


End file.
